The Cornelian Dilemma
by M. Christine Armstrong
Summary: 2044. Two girls ask their cousin about WWIII. When they find the room behind the china cabinet, they get more than they bargained for... 2033. Mary Cornelian finds two enemy soldiers, still alive after a bloody battle, and finds herself unable to abandon them. She hides them for 3 years, unsure if the her efforts will get the two home...or get all three of them killed.
1. Chapter 1

_Hetalia: Axis Powers is owned by Hidekazu Himeruya._

_Reader discretion is advised._

* * *

The Cabinet Room and Its Memories

**May 12, 2044**

**25 miles west of Kalispell, Montana**

Mary sat across from my sister and me, looking at us with the blandest expression on her face.

"Why would you want to know?"

"It's for American History," Carrie said. "We're supposed to go and interview people who have been part of some sort of recent conflict -"

"Kid, that war ended seven years ago. That ain't exactly current events."

"Yeah, but you're the only person we know who's had an eyewitness account of _anything_," I said. "It was as recent as we could get, and all the rest of us were living in Maryland during the occupation."

"I realize that, Riley."

"Then help us out," I said. "You love telling stories; you've told us about the times you went to Europe since we were old enough to hear them."

My cousin pursed her lips and brought the tips of her fingers together. "Kid, there isn't much of a story. The winters were colder than hell, I had trouble getting propane, food was tight. I just kept my head down and hoped I wouldn't get it blown off."

"But," Carrie said, "what about the camp?"

Mary shook her head, shifting her stiff right leg. "What about the camp? I was there for a maximum of three days, kiddo, and then I got out. The rest you've already heard. There's nothing to tell. You guys want lunch?"

I was disappointed, to say the least. Our cousin Mary had told us story upon story about her travels in Europe, Asia and occasionally Africa, and had read us the most obscure fairy tales and poems in languages we didn't understand, and it was she that had taught us about the First and Second World Wars. But she had never, in all her years of storytelling, told us about what she had done, and how she had survived, during the Third World War. My sister and I were too young to remember much about it, and as soon as the war had broken out everyone in our family had moved down south to avoid the inevitable German-Italian occupation.

Everyone, that is, except Mary. Low on cash and too tied to the land to leave it behind, she had stayed in Montana through the entire occupation. Most of us thought she was dead until we moved back right after the war ended. She wasn't dead, but had gotten shot through the right knee and done time in an enemy prison camp for trying to smuggle extra propane the winter before the war ended.

No one knew how she'd escaped the camp. We cousins had a running pool on our individual theories of how exactly she got out. She hadn't confirmed any of them by the time of our interview.

Carrie and I ate the lunch Mary had made for us, Carrie all the while badgering her for details. She didn't give any. I noticed that Mary was awful quiet that day, when normally she'd be telling tall tales and cracking jokes.

Eventually, she went down into the basement to read for a while and left Carrie and me by ourselves. My twin started ranting immediately after she left.

"This is so unfair!" she said. "Why won't she just talk to us?"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe something really bad happened in the camp that she doesn't want to talk about."

"It's Mary, sis. She's been in trouble more times than I can count, and she's told us about all of them. How bad could it have been for her not to tell us?"

We were just about to find out, because at that moment, a loud _bang! _resounded from somewhere deep in our cousin's basement. We went over to the basement door and opened it, half-expecting to see Mary sprawled out on the floor with six dozen old books scattered across the floor, but she wasn't. Slowly, my twin and I walked down the stairs, shutting the basement door behind us.

"Mary? You okay?" I called as I entered the main basement space. This was where our cousin made her quilts, gorgeous, warm things that caught eyes everywhere they went. Her cutting table and piles of fabric sat to the far right, with the sewing machine on a desk just in front of it. There was an expanse of empty space from there, where Mary had taught us how to play 21, BS and Egyptian Rat Screw as kids. And on the far left wall was a china cabinet full of knickknacks…

I blinked. I thought I was seeing things, but I wasn't. The china cabinet wasn't in its usual spot, but was now a foot or so from the left wall, facing the adjacent wall. Where the cabinet had previously stood was an open doorway.

I looked at Carrie. "Where did that come from?" I asked. Carrie shrugged.

Stepping closer to the doorway, I found that the door had been screwed to the china cabinet so that the cabinet hid the doorway completely. I became uneasy. Why did my cousin need to hide this room?

The room in question was smaller than my cousin's adjacent bedroom, and with two twin beds next to either wall. The beds were made, but looked like they hadn't been slept in for a long time. The walls were covered with posters, many in foreign languages; some were in German, some French, some Greek, some Italian, a smattering in Arabic, a handful in Japanese, a couple in Swahili. In the left corner sat a rocking chair covered in red cushions. And on the chair was a photograph. I picked it up.

There were two young guys in it. Both were dressed informally, in white t-shirts and jeans with flannel jackets thrown over them. They were sitting on one of the beds. One looked like an albino; his hair was really, really white and his eyes were a tomato-soup red, he grinned at the camera like he was daring someone to come out and punch him. The other had this brilliant, million-dollar smile, eyes the color of honey, and really pretty reddish-brown hair with this one curl sticking out.

Carrie looked at the photo, and then at me. "Who are these guys?" I didn't know. Our cousin didn't date, but had shown us pictures of her friends from abroad. These guys had never turned up in her photo collection.

Just then, we heard the door close behind us. We both started and turned towards the door.

Mary stood there, her arms crossed, a sad, sardonic smile on her lips. "I am one shitty American, aren't I?"

"What are you talking about?" I said. Then it hit me: I was in a hidden room, in my cousin's house, holding a photograph of two guys I didn't know and had never seen in any of my cousin's other photographs sitting in this room. And now that I thought about it, they looked kinda like foreigners.

I turned the photo over. On the back was written _Christmas, 2035_.

_How_ _bad could it have been for her not to tell us?_

"Mary," I turned to my cousin. "What'd you do?"

Mary closed her clear, grey eyes, uncrossed her arms. "_Alea iacta_ _est_," she said. She opened her eyes. "I, Mary Cornelian, do solemnly testify that from April 14, 2033 to July 21, 2036, I gave aid and comfort to two enemies during a time of war -" She took a deep breath. "- thereby betraying the United States of America."

I stood there, dumfounded. My cousin – my story-loving, globe-trotting, quilt-making cousin who was sixteen years older than me and had given my sister and me our first dolls – had betrayed the United States?

"Why?" I said. "What happened?"

Mary sighed and took the photo from me. She sat in the rocker and spoke the line which began so many of her tales. "It's a long story, so get comfortable."

Carrie and I settled ourselves on the beds, just as we always used to when Mary started one of her stories. We knew, however, that this story would be different than every other story that she had ever told us. We could not share this story with our friends over lunch, or joke about it with our grandparents. Because if anyone found out about this, the consequences would be dire.

"Now," Mary began, "It all started with the First Battle of Whitefish, eleven years ago…"

* * *

**April 14, 2033**

**Whitefish, Montana**

April thirteenth, as I'm sure you two are aware, lives in infamy as being the date of the First Battle of Whitefish, and that battle lives in infamy for being one of the bloodiest in the war. God knows why there were two more; the town was never the same after the first one. The Second one bears no relevance to this particular tale, but the Third one will make an appearance before all is said and done. I didn't actually see the First one, but it's worth mentioning because it was that battle that led me to the two gentlemen in that photograph.

I was twenty-three and alone by then. My family and friends had long since quit Montana, abandoning it like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Don't give me that look, Riley, it's a decent analogy. I am not making any sort of comment about the character traits of our relatives. I, however, through both an unwillingness to leave the only home I'd ever had and my money trouble, had decided to stay behind and take my chances. I got into God knows how many arguments with my parents, older cousins and other close relatives over the issue of whether or not I was coming, but in the end I convinced them to leave without me. I wasn't worth the trouble.

That was mid-December. The occupation began in early January.

I did okay. I kept at my rations, and in those early days it was easier to get propane to heat the house. Incidentally, that was when I started sleeping in the basement, because I lived too far out of town to hear the air raid sirens. I kept my head down and was polite to any soldiers, enemy or ally, that I met. Hey, in those days it paid to be nice.

Anyway, the day after the First Battle (which was before the public became aware of it, mind you), I was driving into Whitefish, hoping to check in on a Canadian friend of mine from college. Let's call him Mark Seitz. What? No, I am not going to use real names. Names in this story have been changed to protect the innocent. No, Carrie, I am not going to compromise on that point. Got it? Good.

Like me, Mark had decided that he would stay put and hope for the best when it became obvious that the Germans and Italians were going to occupy the northwestern states. Early on, he joined an underground resistance movement that was in league with the British RAF and the American Marines. His job was to gather intelligence on the joint German-Italian military. I should point out, however, that I didn't know about any of this until later in war, when he and two other men showed up on my doorstep one warm, October midnight.

But I get ahead of myself. I was going to Whitefish on a prearranged dinner date with Mark. When I got into town, it was very quiet. No one was out, and everything seemed to be at a standstill. It wasn't till I got to the Chamber of Commerce that I saw the first bodies.

And then I knew that things weren't all right.

I did the only thing I knew I could: I parked my car and got out, running up Spokane Avenue as more and more dead people began lining the road and sidewalks. I finally got to the corner of Spokane and 2nd and turned onto East 2nd Street.

And immediately wished I hadn't.

I don't think either of you has ever seen _The Killing Fields_, but that is what the scene reminded me of. American Marines, German soldiers, Italian soldiers, civilians caught in the crossfire, all of them lying dead in the street, with gore covering the streets, the sidewalks, the buildings…It was a bloodbath that would have made even Dracula sick. No words can describe fully the horror of coming across a scene of such mass death and destruction. It numbed my body and my brain, leaving me paralyzed for – how long was it? Doesn't matter; it felt like an eternity. I hope never to see such a sight again, and I hope you never have to.

Even though it was futile, when I could move again I started running up and down East 2nd Street, yelling "Mark! Mark, where are you!? Mark?!" As I've told you, Mark Seitz survived the First Battle of Whitefish to fight another day, but at the time, I didn't know that. I ran and called out to Mark until my sides ached. Exhausted and spent, I leaned against the wall of a flower shop and let out a few tears, putting my hands over my face to block out what I was seeing. It seemed like the thing to do.

I don't know how long I was there before I heard breathing. I just know that it sounded loud amidst the town's as-of-yet unbroken silence. I took my hands from my eyes and looked around. Had I only imagined that I had heard it? But then I saw two soldiers in the uniforms of the German and Italian armies just a foot or so from me. And their chests were moving.

I went over to them, placed my ear near the German's mouth. Yes, he breathed! And the Italian, he breathed! I was giddy from this revelation that life still existed in this place of death, for that had not seemed the case. But, looking closer at these two men, I knew that they were still in rough shape. The German had a gash in his forehead and his left leg was clearly broken in at least three places. The Italian had a deep cut in his shoulder that was still bleeding, and his right wrist had been fractured, although not as badly as his German friend's leg.

I found myself with a choice to make. I know a bit of field medicine – not much, mind you, just enough to do something when things get rough. But I knew the consequences should I take that course of action and be found out. I could leave these men to their fate, or I could risk being shot for treason. I looked at my hands, and then I looked at the two men.

_Alea iacta est._

"Well," I said, "better get moving. God knows when the Marines will get here."

I pushed open the door of the flower shop and propped it open with a block of wood. Then I picked up the German and dragged him through the door, being as careful as I could about his leg. I went out for the Italian, and once he was through I closed the door.

It was time to get to work.


	2. Chapter 2

Johannes and Raffaele

**April 14, 2033**

**Whitefish, Montana**

The first order of business was to get the Italian's shoulder to stop bleeding. I cased the joint and found exactly what I was looking for to treat these guys. The rest I will mention as I come to them, but for the Italian's shoulder, I needed gauze and some sanitary napkins. What's with that look? The things were originally created to be bandages, so they're perfect for these situations. Putting on the gloves (non-latex, thankfully) from the first-aid kit that I'd found, I removed his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt so that I could get a good look at this cut of his.

Like I said, it was deep and about three or four inches long. I'd have to stitch it, but first, the bleeding had to stop. I opened one of the pads, put it over the offending area, and started pressing down on it. That one soaked through, so, keeping one hand on the pad, I grabbed another one, opened it, put it atop the other one, and kept pressing down. It didn't bleed through that one, so I took one more pad (just to be safe) and some gauze and wrapped his shoulder, keeping pressure on the injury at all times. What's that, Carrie? Yes, I stitched it, but that came later. I didn't want to let up the pressure until I was sure that he wasn't going to bleed anymore.

Next, his wrist. Being as gentle as I could, I used the gauze, some unsharpened pencils from behind the counter and some shoe laces from a pair of Nikes to splint his wrist. I couldn't set it, I don't know nearly enough about medicine or anatomy to do that, but I could make sure he didn't move it anymore than he had to. I buttoned his shirt back up, but didn't put his jacket back on him. Instead, I made a makeshift sling out of it, tying the sleeves behind his neck and placing his wrist in the loop. I threw away the gloves, pressed my fingers to his neck and counted. His pulse, I was glad to see, was good and strong. He'd be fine.

The German was next. The gash had to be taken care of ASAP. I put on some new gloves and assembled my weapons: A bottle of water, a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, a needle and thread, and a tampon. I know what I was doing, okay? A tampon wouldn't leave debris like a cotton ball or toilet paper. Now will you stop looking at me like that? Thank you. Anyway, I took the bottle of hydrogen peroxide and poured some onto the gash. While the wound bubbled and fizzed, I unwrapped the tampon, removed the applicator and stuck the cotton in the water. It poofed up, like one of those shower loofas that you find at Bath & Body Works. I poured some water over the gash and scrubbed it with the tampon-loofa. I repeated the peroxide-water-scrub cycle two more times, for good measure.

After cleaning the thing out, I got ready to stitch it. I was threading the needle when I heard something shift. I froze and looked over at the Italian. His eyes were open, and he was looking up at the ceiling, wondering (most likely) where he was and how the hell he got there. And what the heck was up with his arm. He used his free arm to push himself up, and then grabbed onto a table so that he could stand.

"Whe-where am I?" he said in Italian. I remember he had a very high, pitchy voice; it cut into the silence like a bread knife through jelly.

"Whitefish," I said. "In northwestern Montana."

He gasped and turned towards my voice. As I'm sure you know, this Italian had auburn hair that had one unruly curl and big, round eyes that resembled Wherther's Original candies. He stared at me like a deer caught in the headlights of a car.

"Who-who are you?" he said, in English this time. His accent was very pronounced, but understandable. "And what's going on? We were in battle, and then someone fell on top of me and – Oh my God, where is everyone, and why are you here and -" He saw his German friend and shrieked. "_O mio Dio, _Johannes!"

Before you ask, no, Johannes was not his real name. For our purposes, let's just call this German Johannes Mueller.

"Yeah, there was a battle. I found the two of you unconscious in front of this store. You're going to be fine, and I think the odds are in your friend's favor, but as for the rest of the people you were with…" I gestured towards the storefront window. "See for yourself."

He saw, alright. I will never know how many people he actually knew in his platoon, but whether he knew them or not, for better or for worse his entire platoon was now lying dead in the streets of Whitefish. I watched him realize it, watched him come to the realization that he and his friend had been the only ones to escape, and watched him run into the men's room with his un-slung hand over his mouth.

I let him have some privacy while I stitched Johannes's forehead. When I finished, I tied the thread off and cut it. I used those same scissors to cut off his left pant leg – I didn't want this splint over his pants – and cut the fabric into strips lengthwise. I was pretty sure that his knee was fine, so I decided against splinting his entire leg. I'd broken a couple of branches off of a tree out front –

Riley, given the choice between helping a guy and a tree, I choose helping the guy. It was only four branches! That's hardly the end of the world.

Anyway, I'd broken off these branches, split them in half, and tied them to Johannes's lower leg and thigh using strips of his pant leg. It was time to try and wake him up. I went to the men's room for the Italian.

As I'm sure you've figured out, while I was stitching up Johannes and splinting his leg, the poor Italian had been puking his guts out and, once he ran out of stuff to barf up, had huddled in a corner and sobbed. He told me later that was one of those times when he wished that this was just some sick nightmare he was having, and that when he woke up he'd be back home in Venice with his grandfather and his brother and his boyfriend, and there was no war that he could be drafted into. I could empathize.

I flushed the toilet and sat next to him "Any better?" What a dumb question.

"No."

"Didn't think so. Look," I turned him towards me, "I know this isn't easy for you, okay, but what's important right now is waking your friend-"

"Johannes."

"Right. What's important right now is waking Johannes up and getting you two out of town. I know a way to wake him up, but I need you to hold him still, okay?"

He moped up a few tears and nodded. "_Va bene_."

"Good." I stood up. "I'm Mary. Mary Cornelian." I held out a hand to help him up.

He grabbed my hand with his free one. "M-my name's Raffaele Conti." Again, not his real name, but it works for here. I pulled him up and we walked out.

I had found some ammonia and eucalyptus oil while I was looking for supplies, and I now poured the two into the nearly-empty water bottle. I capped it and shook to mix the stuff. When I was done, I grabbed a paper towel I had appropriated from the bathroom.

Raffaele, meanwhile, had sat down next to Johannes. "What's that for?" he asked.

"He's going to sniff it," I said. I placed one knee on Johannes's shoulder. Raffaele got his other shoulder with his free hand. "I would try not to breathe for a few seconds."

"Why?"

I unscrewed the cap and tipped some of the stuff onto the paper towel. "Because this is going to stink." I put the paper towel under Johannes's nose.

It took a few seconds, but eventually he sneezed and opened his watering eyes. "_Mein Gott_, what stinks?" he said in German. That's when he saw Raffaele and me holding him down.

Johannes is the albino. He had hair as white as snow and eyes the color of cherries, and that moment was the first time they leveled their gaze at me.

"Raffaele," he said, speaking in English now, "who is this woman? I do not recognize her, and she is obviously not in the military -" His eyes widened as he took in his friend's injured arm, the cramping pain in his left leg, and the tightness in his forehead. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what happened to your arm? And where is the the rest of the platoon, and what's wrong with my leg, and why," he pointed at me, "why the hell is a civilian here?!"

"Johannes," Raffaele said, "This is Mary. She found us in the street. I remember that a Marine cut my shoulder with his knife while we were in close combat, and I guess my wrist broke when I fell, but I'll be fine, and you'll be fine, but as for the rest of the platoon…" His eyes strayed towards the growing darkness outside. Good God, I must have been there for quite a while, for it was nearly sunset.

"What? What happened; let me see." Raffaele and I got off of his shoulders. Placing his hands beside him, he pushed himself up to see what had happened. His eyes went wide with shock and his already fair skin paled a few shades when he saw what had become of his platoon mates, what fate he and his friend had so narrowly escaped. "Jesus Christ," he whispered. He shook his head. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph."

"Yeah, I know," I said.

Johannes looked up at me. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"I was going to visit a friend of mine who lives here. The bodies started showing up when I got to Spokane Avenue, so I stopped the car and ran up the street till I got here and…well, I'm pretty sure you have some idea of what happened after that."

"What happened to your friend?"

"I don't know."

Johannes narrowed his eyes. "You're an American. Why are you helping us?"

Suddenly, I heard shouting voices in English from the street outside. Marines. And I was standing there with two enemy soldiers. If they saw us...

I leaned over. "I might be an American, but I don't like death and I don't like violence and I don't like war. Now listen," I said, "we have to go, _now_."

"Why should we trust you?" He pulled a pistol from his belt.

Raffaele gasped. "Johannes!"

"She could turn us over to the Americans. This might be the best way."

I heard someone shout, "This one's still breathing!" A gunshot went off. I felt my skin turn cold. So that's the way they did things now.

I went over to the window and looked through it. We had maybe ten minutes before those Marines got to us. Maybe.

I returned to the two men. Raffaele was shaking. Johannes's hostile expression had turned to unease. I knelt close to them. "You two hear that? Those Marines are picking off the rest of your platoon. They'll be right next to this shop pretty soon and if they see you two, you're dead. If they hear any suspicious noises, they'll come faster." I looked towards the window, then at Johannes's leg, then at Raffaele's arm. "Johannes, you can't walk, and unless either of you knows how to hotwire a car, you're going to need me to get out of here. We're at an impasse. So what do you say? We could all die here, or I can try to get you to my house outside Kalispell. Either way, make your decision fast. We don't have all night."

Johannes looked up at Raffaele, then at me, then at his gun, then out the window. He stuck his gun back in its holster and nodded. "_Richtig_." He held out his hands. "Help me stand."

An offhand acknowledgement that for better or for worse, these two had to trust me.


	3. Chapter 3

A Wing and a Prayer

**April 14 & 15, 2033**

**Whitefish and Highway 93 North, Montana**

Raffaele opened the side door into the alley and poked his head out. "Nobody's here," he whispered.

"Good," I said. I walked out of the flower shop, my arm around Johannes's waist and his arm on my shoulder. Under normal circumstances, I would have found the sight of a six-foot tall man hopping on one foot while holding onto the shoulder of a woman at least half a foot shorter than him comical. However, being in the presence of two enemy soldiers, in a warzone, with homicidal Marines lurking the streets, was not what I considered "normal" circumstances. Not at all.

We walked through the alleyways, avoiding the main roads, stealing glances behind ourselves as though a Marine would jump out of a corner and open fire on us. In retrospect, it's a bit unlikely that they would have actually hit us had that happened, because by the time we left the shop and started sneaking to my car, it was dark enough to be a nuisance, if not a hindrance, to any and all Marines looking for leftover enemy fodder to clean up. At the time, however, the growing gloom only added to my apprehension. You guys know that I've always distrusted the dark.

We were sneaking towards an alley pretty close to the Chamber of Commerce, when my eye caught on something that had been spray painted on the wall of a building. I stopped.

"What?" said Johannes, a bit too loudly for my taste.

"Shhh." I said. I looked over at Raffaele. "Hold him for a second, will you?" Raffaele complied without a word. I stepped a little closer to the message.

It was red paint, the color an M&M, and had been added recently. _Very _recently; it was still a bit wet in spots. It was illuminated by a streetlamp, but the bulb in said streetlamp was almost dead, so it was with great difficulty that I read the message painted on this building.

I blinked.

This couldn't be right. It couldn't be. Nobody used _that_ signature anymore.

Right?

As I stood there, reading and re-reading what had been written over and over and over again, as realization dawned on me that the three of us were in deeper shit than we had given ourselves credit for, every sound that bit into the unending silence sounded louder, every shadow that could rear its head in the advancing darkness looked darker, and though the street was as still as ever, I quaked as though the street was bucking under my feet.

For you see, girls, the message on that building wasn't words at all, but numbers; three very simple numbers that had terrorized Montana in its frontier days and were now reigning terror again.

**3-7-77**

"Mary?" Raffaele said. "What's wrong?"

The rumors I had heard, the ones that I had dismissed as being unimportant or not relevant to my situation, were true. And now they were most definitely important and relevant, because my situation was now a dangerous enough one through regular channels. But if these men found us…

"You're scaring me, Mary, tell me what's wrong!" Raffaele's voice got higher as he grew more agitated.

"Those guys aren't Marines," I said. "They aren't anymore, at least."

"What do you mean?" Johannes said. He squinted up at the building. "3-7-77. What does that mean?"

"It means we need to leave. _Now_." I glanced around and headed back towards the alley. Johannes and Raffaele, however, stood gawking at the foreign message.

A message only a Montanan would understand.

"What are you two waiting for?" I said.

"Explain something to me. What is so important about 3-7-77?"

"Why do you freaking care?! Let's go!"

The glare that Johannes sent in my direction would have scared Beelzebub straight out of his hellish shoes. His red eyes didn't help matters. "Listen,_ saumensch_, I did not ask you to help us leave this town, but since you insist on doing so, _I _insist on knowing what I am up against. So I will ask you one more time: What the hell-"

"Three feet wide, seven feet long and seventy seven inches deep. Those are the dimensions of your average grave, and if we don't leave _right now_," I said, "we'll be in a grave! Now, for the last time, _arschloch_, let's go!"

What? _Saumensch _and _arschloch_? Well, considering you'll be hearing Johannes and me flinging those insults at each other quite often, I should probably explain. _Saumensch_ is a feminine insult meaning…something to do with pigs; "filthy pig," perhaps. The masculine form of the same insult is _Saukerl_. _Arschloch _is a neuter insult that means "asshole." There, I've taught you how to insult someone in German. Don't tell your parents.

Yes, Carrie? Oh, _O mio Dio _is Italian for "Oh my God." Raffaele does say that phrase numerous times throughout the course of the tale. In fact, he said it right after my explanation of the vigilante calling card we had just been presented with, and probably would have said it again had we not heard the all-too-close gunshot.

We needed no more conversation on our course of action. We took off down the alley as fast as we possibly could with Johannes's busted leg, all the while thinking that something was behind us, just waiting for the right opportunity to gun us down. Johannes had drawn his pistol again, but everyone knew that he wasn't thinking about shooting me this time. I hoped he could aim worth a darn if it came to a shootout.

After what couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes but seemed like six hours, I saw my car, safe, undamaged, and right where I had left it in front of the Chamber of Commerce. I unlocked it and helped Johannes maneuver into the back seat, where he could rest his leg on the empty seats. Raffeale took the front passenger seat. I had just walked around to the driver's side and opened the door when a voice split the night.

"Hey! What're you doing here?!"

I never knew who yelled at me, but the important thing was that it wasn't Mark, and if it wasn't Mark than it was trouble. I jumped in my car and shut the door behind me just as two bullets struck a nearby streetlamp. I jammed my key into the ignition and flicked on the lights. "Everyone hold onto something," I said. I floored the gas, speeding down Spokane Avenue as fast as I could, with the Dishonorably Detached Marines in hot pursuit and shooting at us.

Raffaele stuck his head between his knees and placed his hands over his neck. "_O mio Dio_, make it stop! Make it stop! _Dio mi salvi_!"

Johannes began laughing and yelled "You bastards actually think you could kill us with those piddling excuses for guns? If you actually think that, you are seriously mistaken, my friends."

"I swear, God, I will do whatever you want if you just let me wake up from this nightmare right now…Please?"

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, where did you idiots learn to shoot? My seventy-year-old grandfather has better aim than you! Hell, my _canary_ has better aim than you! You're pathetic!"

"Just let me see Grandpa and Niccolò and Heinrich one more time so I can tell them that I love them; then I'll come quietly, but let me live to see them just one more time, please, God!"

Before you ask, Niccolò and Heinrich were Raffaele and Johannes's brothers, respectively. Niccolò was older than Raffaele by about five years and had, if memory serves, quite a colorful vocabulary. Heinrich was younger than Johannes by about six years and, in sharp contrast to his brother, one of the most straight-laced people I have ever met. Both of them will make an appearance in our little narrative and play a brief but not inconsiderable role.

Pardon? Yes, Riley, Heinrich was Raffaele's aforementioned boyfriend. In fact, if I remember right, Niccolò was gay, too. Yes, he was, because that Spaniard – Oh, but I'm getting ahead of myself. Where was I? Ah yes, we were in the car and Raffaele was praying while Johannes was insulting the D2M's and I was committing traffic violations to get away from the aforementioned gun-toting lunatics that were chasing us. The only advantage that we had was that we had a car and these guys didn't.

"_Mein Gott_, you shoot so badly it would make even my baby brother laugh! In fact, one day I will bring Heinrich to watch you idiots shoot, and we will point at you and laugh because of how often you miss!"

"I don't know what I did to piss you off, God, but I can't fix it if you let me die here, so how about letting me live so I can make amends when I get back home? _Capito_?"

"Shit, didn't they teach you how to use that gun you're carrying around, or did they just hand it to you and tell you to fire at whatever moves? Because if they did teach you, then Christ, your teachers must have been rip-roaring drunk half the time for you to shoot this badly!"

"Will you two shut up?" I said. Suddenly, a single bullet flew through the air and hit my driver's side mirror. The glass exploded from the impact, sending shards flying at my window and across the asphalt. I gasped, Raffaele started shrieking, and I heard Johannes yell something in German. I didn't wait for anymore bullets; I stepped on the gas and we flew out of Whitefish and into the night.

I didn't stop, or even slow down, till we were somewhere halfway between Whitefish and Kalispell, and I only did that because I just then realized that I wasn't wearing my seatbelt. I pulled over, turned on the overhead light, and took inventory.

Raffaele was sobbing in the seat next to me, shaking like a leaf in an autumn gale with his free hand over his eyes. Behind us, Johannes had lost all of his bravado from earlier and now looked like those shell-shocked soldiers in World War I photographs. The clock on my dash read 10:50. It had been nearly five hours since I left the house.

"Everyone all right?"

Raffaele looked up, little tributaries of the Missouri river streaming down his face. "_Si_, I…I think so."

Johannes leaned his head back. "My head and my leg ache, but I am fine. You?"

"I'm just a bit shaken. And tired. Nothing that'll kill me."

"Mary," Raffaele said. "You said those men weren't Marines. Who were they, then?"

I took a deep breath. "We call them D2M's, or Dishonorably Detached Marines. According to my sources, after the occupation started, some of the Marines started breaking the regulations in regards to prisoners, and were dishonorably discharged. Afterwards, they created these gangs, and they go around looking for German and Italian soldiers that they can take back to their base camps and…interrogate." I gulped, trying not to think of what I had heard about the D2M's interrogation methods. "Basically, they're the sick love child of the Nazi Gestapo and the Old West vigilance committees."

"What are vigilance committees?" Johannes asked.

"Back in the 1800's, that's what people called the vigilante gangs, because they made a promise to remain vigilant and act as law enforcement, before the western states had stable police forces. You know those numbers we found? 3-7-77? That was a favorite calling card of the old Montanan vigilance committees." I sighed and let my head fall back on the head rest. "I'd heard that D2M's started using it, but didn't really know until today."

"Wa-was the grave story really true?" Raffaele asked. He wasn't crying as hard now, but he still looked awful.

"Actually, I'm not sure. There are a couple of different theories as to what it stands for, but no-one's exactly sure. The only thing that everyone agrees on is that if you found those numbers on your tent or cabin, you were to make yourself scarce or face the hangman's tree. The vigilantes didn't mess around, if you catch my drift."

"And these D2M's don't either. Jesus, Mary and Joseph," said Johannes, shaking his head, "what kind of mad country is this?"

"The one I grew up in. One of the unfortunate things about war is that governments at war do not pay attention to some things during the war's duration. Fortunately, wars are temporary, so when someone wins and all this bullshit is over, the American government may hear about what went on up here and the D2M's will get their own personal Nuremberg and their just desserts." This, as you two know, did finally happen four years ago, thanks to the not inconsiderable efforts of several FBI agents, including Mark Seitz's American half-brother. But we will cross that bridge later.

"But how long will that be?" Raffaele said.

"Days, weeks, months, years, who knows?" I said. Good God, I sounded like Eeyore. "Not much we can do about it, Raffaele, except hold on and survive."

"How long till the military hears about Whitefish?" Johannes asked. He had that _oh, crap!_ look on his face that people get when they suddenly remember something.

"No clue. A week, a month? I'm a civilian; I don't know jack about how the military works. Why?"

"Our brothers are stationed here, too. It occurred to me that when the report comes in…" He looked out the back window. "The majority of our company was wiped out, Mary. When they come to count the bodies…they'll likely assume that -"

Raffaele cut in. "They'll think we're dead too, won't they, and that's what they'll tell our brothers and then Niccolò will have to tell Grandpa and Heinrich will have to tell your grandpa, and, oh, Heinrich…" He started crying again. "Why did this war have to happen? Why couldn't they just negotiate so that you and I and Niccolò and Heinrich could stay home with our grandpas and not have people shooting at us or crazy ex-Marines trying to kidnap and torture us or…?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "I want to go home."

Johannes put his hand on the shoulder rest. "_Ja_, I know."

We sat there for a while. It may have been five minutes later when I felt the gnawing in my stomach that made me realize that I hadn't eaten since 12:30. I looked over at my two passengers. "When was the last time you guys ate?"

"This morning," said Johannes. "Why?"

I got out of the car and went round to the trunk. I opened it up and pulled out my blue cooler, which contained what supposed to be part of me and Mark's dinner. I pushed open the top. Cream soda? Check. Voltage Mountain Dew? Check. Great Harvest pizza bread? Check. Thin Mint Girl Scout cookies? Check.

"You guys hungry?"

A voice from the front said, "Is there pasta?"

"I'll take that as a yes, but sorry, there's no pasta. I have Girl Scout cookies and pizza bread. And soda."

"Soda? Damn," said Johannes. "I could really use a beer."

"Sorry, but Mark and I are both teetotalers. Do you want any or not?"

There was a pause. Then, "We'll go with it, Mary," said Raffaele. "We're both starving."

Pretty soon, we were all as caffeinated as little kids at a birthday party, laughing despite ourselves until our faces hurt and eating the bread and cookies in no particular order. We told stupid jokes and regaled each other with various How-I-Met-Your-Mother and This-One-Time-At-Summer-Camp stories and tales from our adolescence and college years. We swapped stories of friends and family, cats and dogs and horses, and made sarcastic and not-so-sarcastic cracks against the governments of our native countries. It was like my Girl Scout gift wrap booth when business was slow, only with more guys.

"Okay, here's a good one," I said, taking another swig from my Mountain Dew. "So God decides that heaven is getting a bit overcrowded. So he sends Saint Peter outside the pearly gates and tells him to only let in people who had a very bad day the day they died."

"Why only people who were having a bad day?" said Raffaele. He'd started smiling after the third gulp of cream soda and the first of Johannes's many crazy stories, and was eating yet another slice of the pizza bread, which both he and Johannes had decided was excellent.

"I dunno, maybe he felt sorry for 'em or something. So anyway, the first guy comes up, and Saint Peter asks him, 'How'd you die?' and the guy says, 'Well, sir, it's a very interesting story. I suspected my wife of cheating on me, so I came home early to catch her in the act. But I couldn't find anything in our apartment (which, by the way, is on the 25th floor of my building), until I found a guy in a bathrobe hanging from the edge of our balcony. So I grabbed a hammer and hammered at his fingers, and he let go and landed in some bushes. So I grabbed our refrigerator and dropped it over the side of our balcony, but I overexerted myself, had a heart attack and died.'"

"Shit, what a way to go," said Johannes, who had relaxed and was enjoying the Thin Mints. "That has to be one of the worst ways to go that I have ever heard."

"Saint Peter agreed with you, Johannes, because he said, 'Well, that's pretty horrible. Go on in.' So the guy did, and then the second guy came up and Saint Peter asked him, 'How'd you die?' and the guy said, 'I was doing aerobics in my apartment (which, by the way, is on the 26th floor of my building), when I fell over the edge of my balcony. Luckily I managed to grab the balcony of the guy beneath me – and this _maniac_ comes out and starts hammering my fingers! So I let go, but luckily I landed in some bushes – and then the guy dropped a _refrigerator _on me!'"

"That's terrible!" said Raffaele, who was giggling anyway, regardless of whether the second guy's fate was terrible or not.

"I take it back," said Johannes, who was chuckling right along with him. "_That_ is a much worse way to go."

"You're laughing already and I haven't even gotten to the punch line!" I said.

"What's the punch line?" said Johannes.

"Saint Peter laughed and said, 'Okay, go on in.' So the guy did, and then the third guy came up and Saint Peter asked him, 'How'd you die?' and the guy said, 'Well picture this: I'm naked in a refrigerator…'"

They both came uncorked. Johannes laughed hard enough for his extremely pale face turn as red as his eyes, and Raffaele's eyes watered from laughing. Got a good chuckle out of that one, they did.

Raffaele wiped a few tears and said, "Mary, where did you learn jokes like that?"

"Girl Scouts. And high school. I knew this one girl from high school who always had a lot of jokes. Quite a few of them were inappropriate and a few were traumatizing for the guys to hear, but they were funny."

"Do you know where your friend is now?" asked Johannes.

I looked out the windshield, trying to remember the last time I'd heard from that particular girl. "No clue. She and I weren't really friends, just acquaintances, so after we graduated we lost touch."

"Mary," said Raffaele, "does the rest of your family live in Montana? Or did you move up here? Do you hear from your family much?"

I took a sip of my Mountain Dew and picked up a slice of pizza bread. I tore off a small bit and put it in my mouth. I chewed while I thought about what I knew about my relatives at that point.

"Mary?"

"They used to live up here," I said. "When we heard that it was likely that Montana would be occupied, most everyone left except me. I was too broke and too sentimental to leave. No, I don't hear from them much. In fact, I haven't heard from anyone since the occupation started."

"Why?" asked Johannes. "We call our grandfathers and brothers every chance we get. Why don't you talk to your family?"

"Reason A: I can't afford a phone and stamps got expensive after the occupation started, so those two methods are out. Reason B: It's difficult for me to find some of the people in my family. I mean, most of my people live in Baltimore right now, but my great-uncle had to choose between living near my grandma in Baltimore or near his son in Phoenix, and I don't know which way he went. I have no idea where my dad is because he and my mother divorced when I was little and he and I had a falling-out when I was fourteen, so I haven't heard from him since. My sister Cassidy works as a foreign correspondent for the BBC, and was living in London the last I heard, but my last letter was returned to me, so I think she got sent to cover things in China or Russia or wherever that front is. Either way, she's nigh untraceable, especially for someone of my means."

Ah-ha! You two forgot about dear old Cass, didn't you? Yes, she was a war correspondent for years. You want war stories; you call her or go over to Coeur d'Alene and ask her. She will give you war stories, by God.

"Oh," said Raffaele. "I didn't know you had a sister, Mary. Is she nice?"

"Yeah, a kid sister named Cassidy. She's a bit of a mouse and kinda klutzy, but nice enough. She'll be twenty-one this October." I stopped talking. At that time, I didn't talk about Cass much, mostly because when I was talking about her, I was thinking about her, and when I was thinking about her, I was worrying about her. I worried about Kasey and Maggie too, but that was more the "Are-Those-Kids-Staying-Outta-Trouble" type worry. The worry I had about Cass was of the "Will-I-Ever-See-Her-Again-Or-Will-She-Get-Killed" variety. We were both journalists, but I was, at best, Nellie Bly working for the local newspaper while she was Sydney Schanberg on the front lines. And I didn't like the stories about the Russian camps. They sounded just as bad as the D2M camps.

"I can remember the last conversation we had, when I dropped her off at Bozeman International," I said. "It was last November. I was really nervous about letting her go to London 'cause I was afraid she would get shipped out to the front. She told me not to worry so much and I told her that I would worry all I damn well liked, because she was my little sister and could very well be sent out on this century's equivalent of the Bloody Bozeman Trail."

Johannes nodded. "You worry about her. I can understand that. When I found out that Heinrich had enlisted, I could have killed him! That little shit, who did he think he was, signing up for the _Heer_ when he should be continuing college and having a life? I didn't matter so much; I'm twenty-seven, but him? He'd just turned twenty-one, for Pete's sake!" He laughed. "I thought Grandfather would have to rebuild the entire damn house when we got done with it."

"I remember when I got drafted," Raffaele said. "Niccolò was pissed! He was going on about 'What the fuck is wrong with this country,' and 'I will kill the government bastards when I get my hands on them,' and Grandpa was crying and saying that I was too young to get pulled into this war, that at nineteen I should be having fun and not shooting people -"

"Hold on a second, you're nineteen?" I said

"Yep."

"Your gramps is right; you are _way _too young to be in the military."

"Really?" He looked confused. "I thought the draft age in America is eighteen, just like everywhere else."

"It is, but I have this notion that you shouldn't be allowed to enlist or be drafted until you're old enough to drink. You, my friend, are barely old enough to smoke."

"Oh. But in Italy the drinking age is eighteen."

Oh. _That_ blew up in my face. "Okay, I feel dumb now."

"What happened with your sister?" said Johannes.

I smiled. "She cuffed me, told me I was a sentimental bitch, then we hugged, told each other to be careful and said good-bye. About a month later, that letter I had sent her was returned." I stopped talking and looked through my windshield. Outside, it was black as pitch, the only light was leaking from my headlights. My eyes wandered to the dashboard clock. 12:12.

12:12?

"Holy shit!" I said, turning off the overhead light and fastening my seatbelt. "We've been here for over an hour." Well, at least I didn't have work the next day.

"That long?" said Johannes. "Yeah, let's get out of here before the damn cops see us." I had to agree with him. The Montana Highway Patrol would be a bit inconvenient right now.

As we went down the highway, Raffaele asked a question that must have been weighing on him for some time. "What happens after we get to your house?"

"I have a spare bedroom in my basement. Until we can figure out a better plan, you guys can stay there."

"What if someone comes into the house?" said Johannes.

What I said next was meant to be sarcastic:

"I don't know, maybe I'll screw the china cabinet into the door so that no one can see it."

The fun began.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear Readers:_

_Here's the next chapter. Sorry it's taken so long._

_And Happy New Year._

* * *

Independence Day, Part I – Foreign Correspondents

**May 12, 2044**

**25 miles west of Kalispell, Montana**

Mary's eyes were closed as she rocked back and forth in the red cushioned chair. Now, however, she stopped rocking and opened one eye. "You two following me so far?" she said.

We nodded.

"Do you have any questions?"

I raised my hand. "How long did it take for the German-Italian military to find out about Whitefish?"

"As a whole? I don't know; phone service sucked in certain areas, and said certain areas didn't always have roads, and I know from a reliable source that the message couriers never knew where they were going. So I imagine more than a few of the poor bastards got lost." Mary ran a hand through her short, dark hair. "All I know is that A) my newspaper did a story on it about three days after I brought the two of them here, and B) Heinrich and Niccolò were stationed at the campground right next to Quake Lake and didn't find out till about a week after the fact. Their guy definitely got lost."

"When is Mark Seitz going to show up?" said Carrie. "And this American half-bother of his who's in the FBI, and Raffaele and Johannes's brothers and the Spaniard you brought up?"

"All in good time, Carrie. Some things have to happen first before we can be introduced to a couple of these gentlemen, such as Mark and his brother and Johannes and Raffaele's brothers and the Brit-" She paused. "Have I mentioned him yet?"

"No," I said.

"Well, there's a RAF pilot in this story, and he will be with Mark and his brother when we get that far." She started rocking her chair again. "However, the Spaniard, whom I shall refer to as César de Gracia, made his debut on July 4, 2033 along with a Frenchman I shall call Jacques Bonnet and a Hungarian woman who shall be called Piroska Kiss."

"And when will you tell us about that?" said Carrie.

"In a few minutes. Let's just clear some things up first. Okay?" We nodded. "Well then…"

* * *

**April 15 and 18**

**25 miles outside of Kalispell, Montana**

That first night the three of us were too tired to do anything complicated. The china cabinet and Raffaele's shoulder had to wait till the next day. I dug out some blankets and some flannel nightshirts that had always been way too big for me, directed them into this room, helped them get out of their uniforms and into the PJ's (and before you start thinking anything sick, they kept their underwear on), helped Johannes maneuver into a bed, told them good night, went to my own room, and fell into my own bed, clothes and all. Yes, Riley, the beds were already in here. I put them here when I bought the place so that any visiting friends or family would have somewhere to sleep.

Since no one visits this house with any kind of regularity besides Cassidy, however, I don't think anyone actually utilized those beds before Johannes and Raffaele. This is important because A) Since no one ever visited me, I didn't have to worry too much about people coming into my house, and B) Since no one ever seems to remember the layout of this place (don't give me that look, Riley, you couldn't even remember where the bathroom was when you first got here), no one would notice the missing room. They both had the advantage of making it easy to pull the wool over everyone's eyes long after the war ended, but the former carried the disadvantage that it made me just a tiny bit careless. Not a lot, mind you, but careless enough, and in the October of 2034, that carelessness cost both of them. Especially Raffaele.

No, Carrie, it did not cost him as much as you think it did. Not _that_ much. But it still cost that poor, sweet, innocent Italian boy more than he deserved.

But that came much later. Anywho, where was I? Ah, yes, the next day I did end up screwing the china cabinet into the door. That cabinet, as you two know, has two backs, courtesy of its maker (a friend of mine who was into magic tricks) and I use the shelf that he put in the other side to hide the jewelry and other old stuff I inherited from our great-gram. You guys have seen me reach through that trapdoor and pull out her jewelry box, right? Well, this friend of mine had put two more of these trapdoors into the cabinet: one in its false back (it's behind the thousand-year-old copy of _Les Misérables_, if you're curious) and one in the back that I screwed to the door. I propped this trapdoor open and situated the cabinet so that the door handle came through the hole. Yes, Carrie, _that's _how I got into the room. The wheels on the cabinet's legs were helpful as well; I could come and go with ease and a minimum of noise. That room may as well have been gone.

After I stitched up Raffaele's shoulder (he about cut off the circulation in Johannes's hand, but did better than expected), I took their measurements, told the two of them to stay put unless they needed to use the bathroom, and went into town to get them some clothes. The lady at the cash register was a little surprised that I was getting the amount of men's clothing that I was, but I passed it off as stuff I was sending my guy cousins in Maryland for their birthdays. She believed me, thank God, and I went on my way. In all probability she has since forgotten the incident.

Back at the house I gave the guys their attire for the next three years, apologizing if it wasn't to their taste. They forgave me. They weren't in a position to complain.

That night I removed the military decorations and medals off their uniforms, placing each one in bags marked **Johannes **or **Raffaele**. The bags I hid near Gram's jewel box, and I gave the guys their wallets back, but I burned the uniforms and their old clothes. They were ruined anyway, and I did not want to explain the presence of enemy uniforms in my house should anyone stumble across them.

On the eighteenth, my editor decided to do an article on Whitefish. The instant I heard, I feigned illness and asked to go home. Permission was granted. When I got back to the house, I told the guys.

"Do you think our brothers have heard by now?" Raffaele said.

"No clue. Are they close by?"

"Last I heard," said Johannes, "they were stationed just north of Yellowstone."

"That's a long way south, so maybe not. I don't know how fast information travels in the military, so whether they've heard anything is beyond me." I sighed. "I'd smuggle you two over to them, but that's a long stretch of road and God only knows where they actually are. It'd be a wild goose chase."

Raffaele looked up at me. "You would?"

Would I actually do that? At that point, I wasn't sure, but still I said, "Yeah, I would. But they need to be closer and I'd need a more precise location. Otherwise it's too risky."

That was the first of two times I proposed finding a way to return them to their brothers. The difference between the two was this: that first time I was more concerned with keeping them alive than taking them anywhere. The second time, I wanted what they wanted, and when I proposed that possibility a second time, they wanted to go home.

* * *

**July 4, 2033**

**Kalispell, Montana**

But about the Fourth of July. Before I started freelance writing, I worked for Kalispell's local newspaper. I left about three years after the war ended because the new editor was a first-rate jackass and I was fed up with writing news and features, but during the war the editor was nice enough and I was still somewhat content with my lot in life, so that was where I worked.

I should point out that this is one of two Independence Days that I remember during the course of the war. Both are relevant to this tale. I warn you, this installment will not be the most interesting of this story, but it is necessary to make some introductions before we move on.

I can't for the life of me remember what article I was working on – I want to say it was about the local 4-H group, but I think I was working on that article in November – when the editor, Bill, came into the newsroom with three people behind him.

The first was a guy. He was young, but no baby; thirty at the most but twenty-five at the very least. He had a slight tan, dark brown hair cut short and eyes that were a pine green.

The next one was also a guy, and was in about the same age range; twenty-seven, maybe. He was paler, had flaxen blond hair that he kept in a ponytail and baby blue eyes, and he looked like he could use a shave.

The last person was a woman. She was a bit younger, maybe her early to mid twenties. Her hair was a very light brown and fell to the middle of her back, and she wore a flower in it. She had grassy green eyes.

Bill explained to us that these guys were foreign correspondents, and they were here to cover the war for the newspapers _El País_, _Le Nouvel Observateur_ and _Der Tagesspiegel_. They were going to be using some of our extra office space and would we please make them feel welcome? Thank you, and then Bill went back to his office.

Quite a few of my coworkers went up to the three to welcome them, but I didn't. One thing that Cassidy and I have in common is that neither of us is very good at socializing, albeit for different reasons. Cassidy is shy and self-conscious about her stutter; I'm just not very good at starting conversations. Besides which, there was _way_ too many people standing around and talking to these guys. If there is one thing I truly hate, it's crowds.

At lunchtime, I was eating alone in my cube, as per usual, when someone behind me tapped my shoulder and said "Excuse me, _signorita_, may I sit with you?" in a lyrical Spanish accent. I jumped and turned around, expecting to find my colleague Henry behind me, practicing his accents (again), but it wasn't. It was the correspondent from earlier, the guy with the green eyes.

I had no idea why he _wanted _to have lunch with me; I hadn't ever talked to this guy before in my life, but on the other hand, I had finished my book and would have nothing to do during my lunch hour anyway, so what the hell? "Be my guest, _signor_."

"Ah, you speak_ Español_?"

"Truthfully? No; I can speak Italian but Spanish has never really worked out for me. My sister can, though."

At the mention of the Italian language, he smiled. Like Raffaele, this guy had a really nice smile, but in a different way. Raffaele's smiles were almost always really wide and made him look joyful and exuberant and a lot younger than he actually was. When this guy smiled, it was smaller, but warm, and it made him look sleepy, as though he'd just woken up from a summer afternoon nap, or a pleasant dream. "I can speak Italian, too," he said.

"That so? How'd you learn to speak it?"

"Had to. My boyfriend's Italian." He chuckled. "I had to keep up with all the insults and swearing he hurled at me."

"Well, that's as good a reason as any," I said. "Do you have a name, Spaniard-with-an-Italian-boyfriend-who-likes-to-swear?"

"César," he said, pulling a spare chair into the cube. "César de Gracia."

"And what brings you to Montana, César de Gracia?"

Before he could respond, another voice, this one possessing a French accent, worked its way into our conversation. "César!" it said. "There you are, _mon ami_. I thought you had abandoned me." The other guy correspondent, the blond one, stuck his head into my cube. He raised an eyebrow as he caught sight of me. "Ohohon, what have we here?"

"Someone who is completely uninterested." Hey, I had a reputation for being un-datable for a reason, and it wasn't because I had a disease. The last few guys to attempt shameless flirtation on me had been very disappointed, and he seemed – correction, he _was_ – the type to do that.

To his credit, he took my lack of interest in stride. "Madam, you wound me with your cruel, cruel words!" he said, placing a hand over his heart and giving me puppy eyes that were amused rather than offended.

I had to laugh at that. "I'm sure you'll survive, Frenchman. I have yet to hear of any fatalities resulting from bruised egos."

"True, but I would rather not be the first!"

César rolled his eyes and shook his head, but he was still smiling. "Miss – Cornelian, is it? Yes? Thank you – Ms. Cornelian, this is my old friend, Jacques Bonnet."

"_Enchante_, _monsieur_," I said.

"Ah, you speak French?"

"Actually, yes. Not well, mind you." My French has always been atrocious. It was so frustrating to my French teacher in high school that one day, after I had mispronounced some word or another, he popped and sent a barrage of French and English swear words flying in all directions across the room, sending various students, pieces of furniture and other learning paraphernalia toppling to the ground. The guy next to me got a concussion and my friend Mara got cut right over her eyebrow. What are you looking at me like that for? It actually happened, honest to God. Don't give me that; you weren't there. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it, and I don't care if you don't believe me. "The only way I can speak it with any accuracy is to ditch my pitiful accent and speak very, very slowly."

"Oh come now, you underestimate yourself, surely," Jacques said, leaning against the desk.

"Would you like to hear the story of the scar over Mara Johnson's eyebrow?"

I did not, however, get to relay that particular tale on that particular day, because I was interrupted by another voice. This one was female, it was Hungarian, and it was irritated.

"Oi! César, Jacques, who are you harassing this time?" The woman correspondent stormed in, ignoring the sounds of protest from the two men in my cube. "Well?"

"Actually, ma'am, they aren't harassing me." I took a swig of my water bottle. "Truth be told, I haven't had such good company during lunch since high school." That was true; Mark and I always met for dinner, not lunch. I held out my hand to the Hungarian correspondent. "Mary Cornelian, at your service."

She took it with a small smile and we shook. "Piroska Kiss," she said. She looked over at the two men. "You sure they aren't bothering you?"

"Nah," I said, "I had nothing to do anyway."

"If they ever bother you, come to me. I will smack them with a frying pan."

I about spat up another mouthful of water. "You can't be serious."

"You want to bet?" César asked. "She's done it before."

I giggled, remembering Cassidy's habit of smacking people over the head with books whenever they said something stupid. "So, what brings you three to this corner of paradise?"

They all instantly sobered.

"Our newspapers," said César, "got reports of a battle in a town called Whitefish some months ago. With the war heating up, we got sent to cover things on this front."

I winced at the mention of Whitefish. "Oh."

"Is something wrong, Mary?" Jacques asked.

I looked away. "It's nothing."

"Come on," Piroska said. I was to learn that she was not the type to give up easily. "Come on, just tell us."

I gulped. "It's just…I saw what happened at Whitefish. I was going to meet a friend for dinner and, well…" I gulped again. "It was only the day after most of the fighting and I don't know what happened to Mark; I haven't heard a word from him…" I swiped a hand across my eyes. "I don't like thinking about it."

I felt someone's hand on my shoulder. I looked up. Jacques face stared down at me; his face, which had been smiling before, now looked like he'd been punched right after being told his mother had died. "I'm sorry you had to see that," he said. "I remember when I first saw the pictures…_Mon Dieu_, I thought I would be sick." He shuddered, his eyes closing. "I-all three of us had two friends that were in the German-Italian company stationed there. When we heard…" He tapered off.

"One was my boyfriend's brother." César's voice was soft, like ice cream that had just started melting. He swallowed. "He was too young for war, and he got thrown into that. Poor boy."

There was a moment of silence, not unlike the one that occurred after Kennedy was shot in Dallas.

"I will pray for your friend," Piroska told me. "And for you."

I managed a smile. "Don't waste your prayers on me. I'm as fine as frog's hair (not a crack at you, Jacques, in case that was offensive in any way). Pray for these friends you mentioned; they need them more than me."

César shook his head. "Their entire company was wiped out. There's no way they survived." His eyes started to get wet. "We each got a call from my boyfriend and our friend's brother as soon as they found out. I'd never heard either of them cry so much." He buried his head in his hands and started to shake. "Of all the people in this war, why them? Why, God, why…"

Why indeed.

We finished our lunch in silence and went back to what we had been doing before the lunch hour. They unpacked their stuff, I worked on an article that may or may not have been about kids raising farm animals.

The correspondents came back the next day, and we talked about everything besides the war. They came back the next day, and the next, and the next; they came to my cube and had lunch with me every day until November 21st, 2036. We told each other stories and jokes, compared notes on our editors and our families, talked about all parts of Europe until the cows came home; we talked about everything except the war, and the friends that had been lost in Whitefish.

It would be a little over a year later when I learned that their two friends were the same contraband soldiers I was hiding in my basement.

Funny, how the world works.


	5. Chapter 5

Dark and Stormy Night

**October 9 and 10, 2033**

**25 miles outside of Kalispell, Montana**

Between April and October I focused on getting enough food for the three of us and trying to get Johannes and Raffaele's injuries to heal. The food was easier. I adjusted my budget so that I could buy a bit more under-the-counter to supplement the rations. Plus, on more than one occasion I swapped my coffee or chocolate rations with the occupying soldiers for some of their food. Potatoes, usually. Sometimes Top Ramen.

The injuries were more difficult – or, to be accurate, Johannes's leg was more difficult. The gash on Johannes's forehead healed nicely, and so did the cut Raffaele's shoulder, although they both left scars. It wasn't too long before I pulled the stitches out. Raffaele's wrist was also unproblematic; it had definitely broken, but it was a superficial break that healed fast and with a minimum of fuss, especially since we kept it still. No, most of the injuries were no trouble at all. It was Johannes's leg that perplexed.

Towards the end of their stay, I asked Johannes how he had broken his leg in the first place. He said that someone lost control of the truck full of Marines they were driving and hit him. He managed to avoid hitting his head after flying over the truck, but when he tried to stand up, his leg wouldn't cooperate. It buckled, and he fell and hit his forehead against the curb. Regardless of how he broke it, I knew, from the moment I first looked at his left leg, that getting it to heal properly would be hopeless. If I was a doctor or if I had been able to take him to a hospital, there might've had a chance, but I wasn't a doctor and taking him to a hospital would have brought up inconvenient questions. I had estimated that he had broken the thing in at least three places. I learned later that it had broken in seven. He was in quite a bit of pain for a long time. That brace would stay on for about a year, and afterwards he needed a cane in order to walk. And no matter what, he couldn't put his weight on it for very long. So yeah, his leg was pretty messed up.

Pardon? I don't know whether Johannes had surgery on his leg after they left or not, and I don't think it would have helped, Carrie. Maybe it would have, but somehow I doubt that they could do much after three years. As for what happened after they were found by their brothers's company, all I know is that he was deemed unfit for combat and sent back to his grandfather's home in Köln. From there, I imagine he spent some time in recovery before working his way to Vienna, where his boyfriend lived. Now, to the matter at hand…

Why do you care? For the most part, it's irrelevant.

…Fine. His boyfriend's name was Sebastian Kindlmüller, and from what I understand he was a correspondent for the ARD and part-time musician. Damn good one, too. Ask Cassidy about him sometime. She could tell you more.

But we're getting off subject. Now let's get to the man you've been wondering about for some time. Mark Seitz. A Canadian by birth, he was a biology major at Montana State University. He is now a marine biologist who divides his time between Canada and France. And he is one of my closest friends. When the summer passed without a word from Mark, I gave up most of my hope that he had lived through Whitefish. I admit to having a meltdown on his birthday in July. Don't judge.

But I was to learn that Mark was a whole lot luckier than he seemed. And a great deal braver.

It was few days after the Massacre at Hungry Horse Reservoir, early October, and unseasonably warm. I was working on something about an hour before quitting time when Bill told everyone to come into the break room. I ran back there just in time to hear two scratchy-sounding beeps and a long, drawn-out noise of some sort come from the small TV we kept back there. My correspondent friends had just come in when the TV broadcasted a scratched and hurried message:

_"The National Weather Service in Great Falls has issued a severe thunderstorm warning for the following counties: Lincoln, Flathead and Glacier until 6:09 p.m. Mountain Daylight Time." _

"Damn," I said to Jacques. "This is could be a long night."

Bill let everyone out early so that we could get back to our houses before the storm hit. The wind was already picking up as I drove home, and I saw huge, blue-grey clouds coming up over the hills. They looked like tall men that had puffed out their chests. And there were quite a few of them.

Yep, it was going to be a long night.

"Either of you afraid of lightning?" I said once I got into the house and behind the cabinet.

"Yes," said Raffaele.

"Hell no!" Johannes said. "What makes you ask? And why are you so damn early?"

"Massive thunderstorm's headed our way. We got a warning at work and the editor told us to go home before it got here and we got blown off the road; the wind's supposed to be terrible."

"Ho-how much lightning is there supposed to be?" said Raffaele.

"No clue."

"Well, what good are you, _saumensch_?" said Johannes. He wasn't angry this time, he was just calling me that to be an ass, but I was not in the mood.

"Look, bucko, I was nice enough to come down and warn you guys. I could have just let you figure it out on your own, what with the thunder and the lightning and the wind and the hail and the power going out and –" Raffaele squeaked and I cut off. "Right. Sorry, Raf."

The storm hit at around four and raged on till six. The ferocity of the wind would have done King Lear proud. The thunder cracks were so loud that even Johannes started every time he heard one, and the hail clicked rhythmically against the side of the house. I sat with Raffaele and tried to keep him calm. I only partway succeeded, but hey, you can't blame a girl for trying.

After the thunderheads had had their fun, they moved on and we were left with milder clouds that did little more than rain. Granted, they rained pretty hard and were there all night, but after two hours in a squall line they weren't much of a nuisance. The rest of the evening was wrapped up without further ado and we went to bed.

I slept pretty well at first, but then I was awakened around ten after twelve by a loud crash. There was absolute silence for about a minute, and just when I was about to decide it was a deer that had tipped over the recycling, I heard my doorbell ring. I waited a couple of seconds to see if I had imagined it, 'cause as crazy as it sounds, that has happened to me before. But no, it rang again. Now I don't know about you kids, but I've never met a deer that could ring a doorbell, or had reason to ring a doorbell, so I sat up, put on my glasses, left my bedroom, and went upstairs.

Not a speck of moonlight made it through the cloud cover, so the upstairs was as black as pitch. My eyesight might be only slightly better than a near-sighted bat's, but even a person with healthy eyes would've had trouble seeing worth squat in that gloom. I felt my way over to the living room wall and palmed the light switch. The illumination wasn't great; there was only one live bulb left in the overhead light and it didn't have long either, but if nothing else I could at least see who was bothering me at this ungodly hour. Which reminded me; I should go look and see who was at my door.

I went up to my front door and opened it. "Henry, if this is you I swear to God I'm going to -"

I froze.

Three men stood on my doorstep, soaked to the skin, a tall one standing next to a smaller compatriot, but I wasn't concerned with either of them. It was the third man that made me pause.

Ash blond, chin-length hair with a stray loop-de-loop curl. Indigo blue, almost purple, eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. A small smile and a now off-white teddy bear in his arms.

"Sorry it's so late, Mary," Mark said, his voice little higher than a whisper. "Our car got blown off the road by the storm, and we need somewhere to stay for the night. Do you mind?"

I couldn't move; I couldn't talk; I couldn't think. Having one of your friends come back from the dead will do that to you. Mark's smile fell and his expression became concerned. "Mary? You okay?"

"AM I OKAY?! YOU'VE BEEN MISSING SINCE APRIL AND YOU'RE ASKING _ME_ IF I'M OKAY?!" My voice broke, and I could feel the tears. "Mark…I didn't mean to…Whitefish…Everyone was…I thought -"

"Yeah, I know," he said. "I'm sorry you had to see that. That wasn't supposed to happen." He looked about ready to cry himself. "And I'm sorry about dinner."

"Not…not your fault," I said, wiping my eyes. "But you know, you had me going there, Canadian. Yes you did."

"I figured. I would have gotten a hold of you sooner, but I haven't had access to a phone. Sorry for scaring you."

I smiled at him. Good old Mark, as quiet and sweet as ever. No wonder he didn't get noticed in college much. Then my eyes strayed to his friends, and I noticed something that I hadn't beforehand. My eyes narrowed. What the…

"Mary? Is something wrong?"

"Since when do you hang out with the Royal Air Force?"

All three of them went rigid. Mark turned to his smaller friend, his eyes taking in the green uniform. He turned to me. "I-I can explain."

"Damn right you're going to explain! You never hang out with military types; the hell -" I stopped. I did the math. Mark was vocally opposed to the occupation. The RAF was here to fight the German-Italian military. I could have been jumping to conclusions, but it was the first feasible explanation I could come up with.

"Mark," I said, "are you in the resistance?"

He closed his eyes and nodded. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before, I…It's just…" His teeth began to chatter and I remembered that it was raining and that the three were probably freezing their asses off. Besides, I was bad at being angry with Mark.

"Mark, shut up. There will be plenty of time for stories later. Right now it's raining cats and dogs and I'm forgetting my manners." I stood back. "Now get in here before the three of you catch hypothermia."

They didn't hesitate to comply. Mark led the way, followed by the tall one and the British pilot. I pointed them in the direction of the upstairs bathroom and gave them some towels. I left them to dry off and proceeded to my guest bedroom. Michael and Robert left some of their clothes behind the last time they were at my house, and never came to get them before they left for Maryland. I doubted they would miss them, so I had put them in a plastic bag and vowed to give them to the Salvation Army. But I never got the chance, so the bag was still in the guest room closet. I retrieved it, cracked the bathroom door a little, and chucked the bag inside.

I had just finished trying to brew some green tea when the door opened and the three came back out, sitting on the sofa. I came out into the living room with four mugs filled with the hot liquid, and did inventory on Mark's two guests.

The tall one bore a striking resemblance to Mark, but his hair was shorter, dishwater blond and had a pronounced cowlick. He also had wire-rimmed glasses, but his eyes were a robin's egg shade of blue rather than Mark's indigo. The Brit had sandy blond hair cut in a short, punk-rocker-ish style and his eyes were bottle green. And he had very thick eyebrows, though I would never say so to his face.

Hey, I might be gauche, but I'm not _that_ rude.

I set my tea down on the table and passed out the rest. "I'm not that great at making tea, so it's going to be a little strong. Sorry."

"Well, at least it's not coffee. When you brew coffee it tastes like rocket fuel."

"No one asked you, Mark."

The tall one took a sip and winced. "Yuck! What is this stuff?"

"It's perfectly good green tea. With some sort of berry in it." The Brit sat in his oversized clothes, sipping. "It's not bad, actually. Yes, it is a bit strong, but compared to the way _some _people brew it," he said, looking straight over at the tall guy, "it is quite acceptable."

"Hey, you're one to talk. You can't cook."

The Brit stopped drinking and set his cup down. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Cooper?"

"You heard me. You can't hold your liquor, either." The tall guy smirked. "And if we're on a last name basis again, it's 'Agent Cooper' to you, Richie."

"I did not tell you my given name so that you could butcher it in such a fashion, you bloody twat!" the Brit said. "My name is Richard Watson, and if you insist on using my first name, it's Richard! Not Richie or Rick, Richard! Understood, _Justin_?"

"Jeez, Richard, cool it. No need to yell, dude." Justin put up his hands defensively. "You need to relax. Seriously." He suddenly grinned in that _I've just had an amazing idea! _way of his. "You know…"

"No, no, NO." Richard's expression was a combination of fury, amusement, and barely contained terror of the _What have I gotten myself into? _variety. I sensed the beginning of something very interesting and was eager to see more, but unfortunately Mark intervened before anything could actually happen.

"Can you save it for later?" Mark said. "It's really hard to talk seriously about things when you two are making out."

"WE DO NOT MAKE OUT!" Richard's face was so red it could have won a redness contest against a tomato. "Why the bloody hell do all of you insist that we do?!"

"Well, it's just -"

This had gone on long enough. It was late, I was rather tired, and I really wanted my explanation. "Mark, quit aggravating the Englishman and get on with it or I'll tell them about the night you came out of the closet."

Now it was Mark's turn to go red. "Pl-please don't tell that story; it's so embarrassing."

"What story about coming out of the closet?" Justin leaned over. "What kind of secrets are you keeping from your brother, Mark?"

Hold on a second. Brother? "He's your brother?" No wonder they looked alike.

Justin stood up. "Yep! I'm Agent Justin Cooper, Mark's half-brother and all-American hero!" He grinned and winked at me. Richard rolled his eyes and grimaced. Justin noticed, grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up, despite virulent protests. "And this is Squadron Leader Richard Watson, here to help liberate the northwest."

I looked over at Mark. He gave me a tiny smile and said "Want to know the sad part? Most of that is actually true. Now please don't tell them about the time I came out of the closet. You _know _how embarrassing that was."

Before you ask about the time Mark Seitz came out of the closet:

Guys, I've told you a ton of inappropriate stuff over the years, but there is no way in hell I am telling you about this. Pigs will fly to the moon before I tell you about this. Let's just say that it involved ice cream, maple syrup, an intoxicated Cuban, and the Bozeman Volunteer Fire Department. And it was very embarrassing for all parties involved, especially the next morning. But anyway…

"Don't worry, I won't tell them that. But you have to explain a few things to me…"

Mark sighed and took a sip of his tea. "Yeah, I know. I'm really sorry about all this, it's just…" He trailed off. "This is all so complicated. In fact, I'm not even sure where to start."

"Start with December," Richard said, sitting back down. "Most of this nonsense started around then."

"Yeah, you're right." He squeezed Kumajiro – that's what he called his bear – and looked into his mug of tea, trying to think. Trying to remember.

"You know how I always go home to Vancouver for Christmas?"


End file.
